Happiness, at least, is not solitary; it joys to
communicate; it loves others, for it depends on them for its
existence; it sanctions and encourages to all delights that
are not unkind in themselves; if it lived to a thousand, it
would not make excision of a single humorous passage; and
while the self-improver dwindles towards the prig, and, if he
be not of an excellent constitution may even grow deformed
into an Obermann, the very name and appearance of a happy man
breathe of good-nature, and help the rest of us to live.
In the case of Thoreau, so great a show of doctrine demands
some outcome in the field of action. If nothing were to be
done but build a shanty beside Walden Pond, we have heard
altogether too much of these declarations of independence.
That the man wrote some books is nothing to the purpose, for
the same has been done in a suburban villa. That he kept
himself happy is perhaps a sufficient excuse, but it is
disappointing to the reader. We may be unjust, but when a
man despises commerce and philanthropy alike, and has views
of good so soaring that he must take himself apart from
mankind for their cultivation, we will not be content without
some striking act. It was not Thoreau's fault if he were not
martyred; had the occasion come, he would have made a noble
ending. As it is, he did once seek to interfere in the
world's course; he made one practical appearance on the stage
of affairs; and a strange one it was, and strangely
characteristic of the nobility and the eccentricity of the
man.
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